Deborah Camp (22 page)

Zanna looked at him, lying on his side across from her, and noticed that his smile had turned downright sly. “What’s going on?” she asked, glancing around for a clue. “You’re grinning like the devil himself.” Then she noted that one of his hands was tucked behind his back. “What have you got behind you? A frog? A snake? Well, I’m no city slicker. I’m a country girl and I’m not afraid of Mother Nature’s creatures.”

He whipped his hand around to reveal a fistful of red, pink, yellow, and green. He extended the bouquet toward her.

“Primroses,” Zanna said, taking the offering and bringing the nosegay closer for inspection. “How sweet of you.” It was alarming how touched she was by his gesture. He’s courting you, she told herself. He’s trying to smooth his path to your bedroom. But knowing the reason behind his gift didn’t make it any less welcome to her.

“And now a song,” he said, pulling his harmonica from his shirt pocket. He ran up and down the scale, then spun around on his tailbone and fell back, his head falling neatly into Zanna’s lap. “Ahhh!” He smiled up at her before fitting the harmonica to his lips and blowing a lilting waltz.

She closed her eyes, drifting with the tune and wondering how many other women Grandville had seduced with a song, a good meal, flowers, and a mischievous grin. She held the flowers against her cheek, dreaming of her girlhood when Primrose had been her playground instead of her prison. What was it now? she asked herself. Her business. Her reward. Her one true love.

Grandy’s next song was a ballad. One part of Zanna’s
mind recalled bits and pieces of the lyrics while the other remembered snatches of the tumult of emotions she’d experienced when Grandy had taken her to bed, only to leave her there alone minutes later.

I must have been terrible—so terrible that he found it impossible to continue. But I told him, didn’t I? I told him I wasn’t any good and that he would be disappointed. Why don’t men listen when women talk?

No matter how dismal her performance, Zanna had to admit that Grandy’s was top dollar. She had been so stunned by her own body’s reactions to his gentle caresses that she’d been unable to do anything but lie as still as a mouse. She’d been scared witless, yes, but not by him. She’d been frightened of her own budding feelings; the strange feathers flying around in her stomach, the leaping of her heart, the roar of blood in her ears, and her almost overwhelming urge to part her thighs and welcome him! Even now her face flamed at that last realization. But it had been there, she told herself firmly.

You know you wanted to, Suzanna! You were trembling with the need to wrap yourself around him and let him bury himself in you. Don’t try to deny it. Given another few minutes, you would have been as limp as a rag doll.

That’s why she’d cried herself to sleep that night. Not from relief because she’d been given a reprieve, but from despair. She’d known despair many times before, but she’d never thought Grandville would lead her to it. That he did was almost more than she could bear. She felt brokenhearted, stripped of all things wondrous and divine.

Grandy stirred in her lap, bringing her back to the sunny afternoon. Opening her eyes, Zanna realized she was crying.

“What’s this?” Grandy sat up, facing her. “Is my playing that bad?”

“No.” She shivered as he brushed aside her tears. “Oh, Grandville.!” She flung her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry about last night. You’ve been so patient … so good
to me. I wish I could have been good for you. I’ve failed at that, but I’m a very good friend. You can ask Theodore. He’ll tell you that I make a most faithful friend. Do you think we could be friends, Grandville? Can I give you that at least?”

His arms tightened around her waist and his voice was gruff with emotion. “Zanna, we’re already friends. And as for last night, you didn’t fail. Making love isn’t a contest.”

“But you left in disgust.”

“No.” He gripped her shoulders and forced her back so that he could look at her sternly. “I left because I didn’t want to continue to make you uncomfortable. I thought you understood that.” He studied her red nose and watering eyes for a few more moments before pulling her into his arms again. “What am I going to do with you, Zanna?”

“Make love to me, Grandville,” she whispered brokenly and felt him grow profoundly still beside her. “I’m sorry!” she blurted, afraid that she had displeased him with her brash request. “I shouldn’t have voiced such a—” Her words were effectively stopped by his mouth. When he tore his lips from hers, she gasped. “Not here!”

He smiled, but his eyes glowed in a way that made her blood simmer. “Modest, aren’t we?”

“Extremely, I fear.”

“The way you talk.” He stood, grabbed her hand and pulled her up with him. “I love it.” He kissed her again, then jerked a thumb back at the horses. “Cinch them up and I’ll gather our things.”

She hurried to do his bidding, but it was difficult to concentrate on tightening the belly straps of each saddle while Grandy’s words—
I love it
—somersaulted through her head. He hadn’t said he loved
her
, but it was enough that he loved something about her.

By the time they had packed up the picnic and were riding back toward the ranch house, Zanna was as high-strung
as a filly within sniffing distance of her first stallion. She remembered how Lilimae and Darnella had tried to make her tell them what it was like to be bedded by Grandville Adams. Well, in a few hours, she’d know.

She trembled and glanced sideways to find Grandy’s gaze on her. The naked sensuality in his frank stare made her feel weak.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

His jawline tensed and quivered. “No need to be. I won’t do anything you—”

“It’s a good scared,” she hastened to add, more afraid that he’d decide to leave her bereft again.

His gaze snapped back to her and one side of his mouth twitched. “Nervous. Not scared.”

“Yes, that’s it,” she lied, because she really was scared. If she disappointed him, he’d probably leave for good and take a chance on being hunted down by the law. A man like Grandville wouldn’t stay around a woman who couldn’t assuage his masculine hungers. The thought of his leaving her made her break out in a cold sweat. Her gaze skittered to his again. He smiled. She couldn’t.

“The first lady I knew in the biblical sense was twice my age,” Grandy announced without preamble.

Zanna’s mouth dropped open. She shut it and cleared her throat. “Is that so?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his drawl pronounced as he continued to share the memory. “She had hair like spun gold and eyes as dark as night. But her face showed signs Of wear. Lines around her eyes and mouth, you know.” His glance took in Zanna’s nod. “But she still was a looker. I was working in a hotel, sweeping the floors and helping out in the kitchen.”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Heavens—”

“She was nigh on forty.”

“—to Betsy!”

“I was sent up to her room one morning with a tea tray. She invited me to stay and sample the cookies. I ate all the cookies while she drank the tea. Before I knew what was what, she was unbuttoning my shirt—”

“I don’t think—”

“—and unbuckling my belt—”

“—I should hear the rest of—”

“—and asking me to undress her.”

“She
asked
you to do such a thing! She asked a
child
to perform such an act?”

“She wasn’t extremely modest, I fear.” He wiggled his eyebrows wickedly, making Zanna laugh and bat a hand at him.

“You love making fun of me, don’t you?”

“Yes.” He mirrored her action, his big hand lolling from his wrist in a singularly feminine gesture. Zanna laughed until she almost toppled from the saddle. When she had sufficiently recovered, he continued with a smile in his voice. “Her name was Mrs. Chastain.”

“What was her first name and where was her husband?”

“I never asked and she was a widow.” His eyes found hers. “Like you, but so unlike you. Mrs. Chastain was well-versed in the art of seduction. She recited lovemaking to me, line by line, because she’d memorized every rule and nuance.”

“In other words, she was a professional.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “That’s not important. What
is
important is that she initiated me into manhood with finesse, which has boded me well throughout my days … and nights. That first experience is the cornerstone, don’t you see? I believe that yours is defective. When the cornerstone is weak, then the structure crumbles.”

She nodded, thoughtful as she stared at her primrose bouquet clutched in one hand.

“But the structure can be rebuilt. A new cornerstone
can be chiseled and molded by a more caring artisan. It’s never too late to start over.”

She sighed. “It would be so lovely to start over.”

“Then we will.”

She smiled sadly. “It’s a dream … not real. None of us can completely start over. We are all products of our pasts.”

“Not always. When a man and woman agree to unite, they can not only dream but become their dreams.” Beneath his tan, his color grew pink and his breathy chuckle was heavy with embarrassment. “I’m no poet. What I’m trying to say is that—well, it’s the only time when you stop thinking and just exist, floating free like a bird on the wing. No guilt. No excuses. No regrets. It’s the best of times, Zanna. That’s what loving should be. It should give you strength, not sap you of it.”

“That’s what it is for you, but others aren’t so lucky.”

His eyes took on a golden glow again, imbuing her with an aching need to believe his assertions.

“Honey,” he drawled with a cunning grin, “you just got lucky.”

With the doors of Zanna’s bedroom securely locked, the world seemed far, far away.

Sequestered in a far corner where the weak bands of sunlight could barely reach her, Zanna stood and looked across the flat territory of mattress to where Grandy sat in her father’s rocker—the very one her grandfather had created from smooth oak back in Wyoming. Buttery sunlight poured over him, combing blond and pale ginger through his sandy hair and shining like bright dew on his chin and the hollows of his cheeks where his straight razor had failed him. Flinging one leg over the chair arm, he tapped his harmonica against his other palm before pressing it to his lips.

He blew a song he’d been taught by a Negress in New Orleans. It reminded him of her; dark and mysterious, with a low, moaning voice. The song made him feel sedately sensuous. He hoped it would have the same effect on Zanna. She was half turned away from him, but as the sorcerous song continued, she began moving slowly in his direction. When she was a few steps away, he put both feet on the floor and stood. He circled her, still playing the harmonica; once, twice, three times he traveled around her before stopping behind her. Holding the harmonica with his lips so that he could continue the seductive accompaniment, he freed his hands to unfasten the line of
buttons down her back. Then he retreated to let her do the rest.

She stood motionless for a full minute, then wiggled her shoulders slightly and yanked at her tight cuffs. The upper part of the dress slid off her shoulders and arms to gather in gentle folds around her narrow waist. Her white camisole looked so feminine to Grandy’s starving eyes that he sucked in his breath, adding a new, strange note to the song. He continued the melody as she removed her dress, revealing loose bloomers that gathered into a flounce at her knees.

How did women wear so much clothing and not die from the heat? Grandy wondered. He himself was growing uncomfortably warm. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip. Zanna had her back to him as she shimmied out of the leggings and tossed them into the rocker where she’d piled her other things.

Her legs were long, slim, and dimpled at the knees. The lacy camisole stopped just below her hips. She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes pleading for encouragement. He moved to stand close to her, his stomach touching her back, his hands sliding down her arms. He linked his fingers with hers. She leaned against him, bringing his arms around her. He blew the last note and let it fade into silence, then tucked his harmonica into his breast pocket and removed his shirt. In the bureau mirror, he watched Zanna use the two steps set at one side of the bed to climb up to the wide plain of snowy white. Her slim legs disappeared beneath the top sheet. She squirmed lower until the sheet was shoulder high, then removed the last bits of clothing, tossing them out. They floated to the floor.

While Grandy finished undressing, Zanna turned onto her side and pressed her cheek into the feather pillow, closing her eyes and trembling with anticipation. She wanted to look, to take a peek at him, but her modesty prevailed. Instead she imagined how he’d look: strong and powerful, not wrinkled and soft like Fayne had been. A
warm hand covered her shoulder, jarring her, and she turned to find Grandy sliding onto the bed beside her. She glimpsed long legs darkened by curling hair and firm buttocks before the sheet billowed over him. He took her in his arms, curving her body until she fit snugly against his like one spoon fits into another.

In this way his hands began to know her. Zanna closed her eyes, glad she wasn’t face to face so she didn’t have to conceal her expressions of wonder and rapture, nervousness and indecision. His mouth explored the curve of her neck, leaving moist trails while his hands slipped down her arms and around to her belly. Flesh bumps popped up on her skin as his fingers danced lightly across her navel and up to cover her breasts completely. He parted her legs and his thigh came up, pressed, stilled, and then rubbed against her.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she. And yet the room seemed to be filled with noise. Zanna’s heart was the loudest of all, she feared, galloping and drumming and thundering. She listened to Grandy’s rapid breathing, interrupted on occasion by brief moans from deep in his throat. She waited for the searing intrusion to her body, but when it didn’t come, she began to relax, although a corner of her being stayed alert and wary. She remembered. Oh, yes, how she remembered the pain, the humiliation, the profound feeling of loss that came when a woman was taken. Dreading it, she was glad that Grandy was postponing the final, ripping plunge.